


The 104th Annual Hunger Games: Part Two

by FandomsOnline



Series: The 104th Annual Hunger Games [2]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Gen, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-24 21:36:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6167569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomsOnline/pseuds/FandomsOnline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If I die, what am I dying for?"<br/>At the age of fifteen, Mikasa Ackerman is ripped from her small family, reaped to participate and fight to the death in the Capitol’s annual Hunger Games. The circumstances remind her of her past, the very reason that she is aware of the only certainty of anything, especially the Hunger Games: death. She vows she will survive to protect her brother Eren, but is the Capitol’s power too great?<br/>The story of Mikasa’s fight for survival, the people she meets along the way and the chaos of the games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Training Centre

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve practically re-read the Hunger Games multiple times just writing this… It’s an amazing book, and if you haven’t read it, you should. And if you have, go read it again! But anyway, this is my first fanfiction that I’ve written to upload. I’ve tried to follow both canons as much as possible; obviously there are restrictions because…well, you know, the majority kind of have to die? I don’t own either franchise – all the characters belong to Hajime Isayama (creator of Attack on Titan/Shingeki no Kyojin) and the fictional world and elements of the Hunger Games belong to Suzanne Collins (author of the Hunger Games trilogy). No profit will be made from this fictional work.

Chapter 5

“If I die, what am I dying for?”

My head is not invaded by any more nightmares, which is a relief. Drowsily, I peel back the covers and roll out of bed. Wonderful – there are tear stains on my pillow. I hop into the shower, careful of the jets this time, and I’m dowsed in mint foam. I’m practically living the everyday life of a Capitol citizen, which disgusts me.  
Just get on with it, I think. I step out to find an outfit hung on my wardrobe: black harem pants; my boots that I brought with me from the reaping; a plain white tank top; and a short sleeved, zip up jacket in navy blue… and my scarf. Thanks, Hange.  
I notice that the room is still reasonably dark, apart from the ray of sunlight filtering through curtains I didn’t realise were there. I pull them open, and after recovering from the blinding sunlight, gaze out of the floor-to-ceiling windows onto the Capitol skyline. Some buildings are so tall that clouds form around the tips, and others are so bright that if you could look down on them, the whole street would form a rainbow.  
I’m unsure as to whether anybody else has risen, but I’ve nothing else to do other than get breakfast. It’s no surprise that Levi is sat down eating, who looks up when I surface. He looks over to the buffet, and says, “You can serve yourself.” This is to my relief, as two Avoxes stand waiting.  
I can’t make eye contact with her; she’s there again. But I discover the root of my fear. This girl’s striking eyes resemble Eren’s, and her hair is a similar shade. He never shuts his mouth about the Capitol. Would that be enough? Would that be a bad enough crime for him to be one? I’m not there to shut him up anymore, either. What if he already is one?  
No, I can’t think like this. I take a sample of everything that looks appetizing: salmon in a chive sauce, eggs, French toast and crepes – one with bacon and mushroom; and one filled with fruit. With this, I have hot chocolate, like the stuff I drank with Hange. Once I finish the hearty meal, it comes to mind that it can’t hurt to eat something else. Any weight I put on will be lost easily, so I shamelessly go for a small chilled blueberry soup with muesli. After finishing that, I get a slice of quiche, again a small one, because I’m filling up. I decide not to eat anymore because I’ll probably be sick, anyway. By this time, Jean and Petra have joined us and are just finishing too. However, Hange and Moblit are just entering, but something about them makes me doubt that either of them eats that much. Of course, it’s the Capitol. Appearance is everything, so why would you want to look the slightest bit overweight? Moblit waves us a good morning.  
My appetite has disappeared anyway; I’m anticipating the day to come. This will be the first time we meet the other tributes face to face – I’d benefit from getting some advice.  
“What would be best to start off with in training?” I question.  
“Survival skills. Learn how to make a fire. Set traps. Shelter yourself. Find water. Find out about toxic plants. Don’t show your skill. If you do, they’ll target you.” Levi answers.  
“How do we practice without showing skill?” Jean asks.  
The answer comes from Hange. “Simple. You’re throwing knifes? Miss a few.”  
“Do we stay together, or train separately?” I query.  
“Well, like I said before, you don’t need to. But, it might work in your favour. If you stick with each other for some of the time, the others will expect you to be weaker alone,” Petra says.  
“And considering you partially hate each other, that couldn’t hurt,” Levi adds.  
When we stand up to leave, I get a proper look at Jean’s outfit. It doesn’t match mine at all, which contradicts our City Circle performance. Good, I think. He’s wearing dark green trousers and a white t-shirt, and lace up black boots. Moblit pins our district numbers to our backs, lets us brush our teeth and do any freshening up, then we step into the glass tube again. I expect it to stop at the ground floor, but that disappears above us quickly. We are the only ones to step out of the elevator car.

-

We’re not the first group, or the last. The career tributes are already conversing, glaring at their opponents. I remember the names, vaguely. The catty girl is Hitch, the sullen one is Annie, the tall, dark haired boy is Bertolt and the blond one is Reiner. They’re in high spirits, of course. They also all seem untrustworthy. Our trainer is a relatively tall man with no hair and sunken eyes whose name is Keith. He reads – or barks – down the list of instructions as the last groups file in, but I can’t focus. I’m too busy thinking about that Avox. I’ll figure out where to go when we start.  
I see Jean out of the corner of my eye; he’s talking to the boy who volunteered. Marco Bodt. I don’t see why he’d throw his life away so easily. Deciding not to question it, I try to find the knife throwing station. I know how to use a knife close-range, but throwing would be a huge advantage. So I follow the girl with dark pigtails, who seems quite gleeful. We make polite conversation, and I learn her name is Mina, and that she is the same age as me. She seems too innocent to be here. Most of her throws are misses, but we learn together and by the end of our session the majority of misses decreases; most of mine are hits. Natural talent, I suppose. I don’t forget about what Hange suggested, though, and miss a few throws. I need to scout out the competition, though, and learn about other systems. Surely they won’t let a person be a moving target for a knife wielder?  
The irony; we’ll all be in a few days.  
The answer is no. There is a small room for each weapon, with a button on the side. I pick up a knife and see what awaits me. The room then lights up, and coloured figures made of tiny blocks move around inside. They can’t be real, but if they aren’t, how do I know I’ve hit? I approach one of the slowest moving ones, which actually reacts to me. I easily stab it, and it explodes – more Capitol technology. I try throwing, and the same thing happens as it hits. But this isn’t the time to show my skill. I turn off the room and scout out the opposition. The girl from Ten is shooting arrows in the room next to me, expertly as well. I wonder how she learned to do that? I imagine her picking off foxes that try to eat the chickens. She’ll last a long time, because she can easily attack people – and animals – off from a high spot. But that doesn’t mean she’s protected from natural disasters. Still, Sasha Braus is one to look out for. 

 

If I want any chance of survival, I need to learn about plants and traps. I join Jean, and apparently his new ‘friend’ Marco. I don’t bother to listen in on the conversation, until I hear about the reaping again. This is my chance to ask.  
“Why did you throw your life away?” I begin. “I mean, it’s not like any of us can win. We’re up against six, if not more, well trained murderers. Why did you?” It’s not like any of us can win. That’s the reality, of course it is.  
“Exactly. I have a fighting chance. The kid that was reaped didn’t.” He replies.  
“But you didn’t know him. There was no reason other than the fact that he was young. So what? Deal with it, that’s the Capitol’s wicked ways. You didn’t get reaped, but you went anyway. That’s just selfish.”  
I hear protests from Jean of ‘shut up’ and ‘you’re wasting time’, and unsure of whom they’re directed at, I ignore him.  
“Selfish?” he asks. “What’s selfish about that? I saved a kid’s life. How is that selfish?”  
“I assume you don’t care about friends or family, then. Bet that was disappointing knowing you were safe, but you put yourself in danger anyway. That kid, he might be reaped the next year. If you die, what are you dying for?” I answer. He stays silent. “It’s not a game for us. You lose, and you will die.  
And you’ll be dying for what? Entertainment?”  
I expand my knowledge of edible plants before moving on, deciding that it’s probably best to leave. Over the next days, I meet a few new people; learn about traps and snares, shelter, and whatever else is needed. The third and final day comes, along with the session showing the Gamemakers your skills. You just have to impress them to get a high score, so more people are likely to sponsor you because of your potential.  
If only it was that easy.  
I spend training refreshing what I already know, then use the last hour preparing for the session. The tension is high. Unfortunately, I haven’t managed to observe my opponents because I’ve been so focused. I take a quick look around me. Though, I think it’s only really the careers that matter – Ymir, the tall brunette seems to have trained with an axe; Reiner, a machete; Hitch, a javelin; Bertolt, a spear (even though I can’t tell the difference); and Annie wields a dagger. I don’t see Marcel, but his partner seems to be chatting with the wide eyed girl from Three. If they’re allies, it would be easy to take out Ymir, presumably her protection and then attack the blonde. If they’re allies. One could be plotting the other’s death, you never know.  
The time comes for private sessions. I don’t have to wait awfully long, but it would be nice to get it over with. Finally, though, it’s my turn. Jean walks out with a smug grin; and I exhale deeply.  
I didn’t come here to win. I didn’t come here to kill. I didn’t come for the fame.  
I came here because I was forced to.  
And I’m about to meet the people who’ve designed my death for me.  
I push my hair out of my face and walk through the door.

-

The weapons in here are in much better condition than those in the room we’d been in previously. Not that those were substandard – even those weapons were high quality. But these shine as if they’ve never been touched, which is most likely true. I have most of the Gamemakers’ attention, but I can’t tell if this adds more or less pressure. I start off throwing knives – even though it’s not my strong point, it could be a valuable factor towards my score. I miss the first and second, which knocks my confidence more than I’d like, but at least they weren’t too far off. The rest are hits, some near misses, but last few are the most accurate. The last knife hits the very centre of the head.  
I turn around to get a good look at their reactions, and notice a few familiar faces. They’re the most important ones – the ones you see on the news that we’re forced to watch, the ones that we learn about in school: Erwin Smith, the head Gamemaker, and the most intimidating; his closer colleagues, Nile and Oluo. All strange names, if you ask me. Honestly, they must have seen better from the careers, but maybe it’s a pleasant surprise.  
I move over to the close range station. At first, it looks like a pitch black hallway, but once I press the button, it lights up and can be seen through what I thought were opaque black walls and from the viewing balcony. The figures appear, red and much larger this time… Like them, like those monsters.  
They can’t hurt you, I think.  
…Is there some way they can?  
I focus on one, running up and taking it from behind, expecting the flash of light that follows. Ok, that’s one down… But the mechanics of these are different. More intelligent. Like people. Like tributes.  
Like them.  
And it all comes flooding back; the tortured cries, the cold knife hilt, the agonized screams. My life, it’s still at risk. The knife, it’s still my lifeline. These creatures, they still decide whether I live or die. It’s all the same; it’s all the same, yet completely different.  
There’s no point in trying to make it stop. There’s no point in screaming or crying, or begging, or pleading, or breaking down. We are tributes. We are meant to be broken. I’m not going to let them have that power. I refuse.  
Adrenaline courses through my veins: I take stance and am ready to attack again. I take them one by one, each using a different tactic. It seems that there’s none left, but I still hear the system whirring. I glance around me, careful not to give chance for an ambush; they can’t hurt me, but they can hurt my chances. Then I look up.  
I suppose if we were in the arena, the figure would be in a tree. And I suppose that I’m meant to be in a situation where I can’t climb. I’m not perfect; I’m not all that skilled in throwing. If it came down to it, the lack of skill could be my death. You can’t exactly practice to get into the swing of things in a life or death situation, can you? No. You have to gamble.  
I aim and throw. I could’ve missed. It might not have hit. But you have to do something, everything does. And it just about hits. Perhaps there’s little precision, but that doesn’t matter.  
I exit the room and return to the centre of the room.  
“We have seen all that we need to. You may leave,” Smith announces.  
That’s the only thing I can focus on doing.


	2. Preparation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The scores are announced, bringing both praise and tension. Stress increases; the interviews are on the horizon, and after that is the Games...

Chapter 6

I fling my knife down on the table I first took it from, and stroll through the door. Maybe I’ve done a terrible job, but that’s something I highly doubt. I shuffle past the Avoxes standing beside the elevator, each clothed in a cloudy blue-grey, and tap the 7 button. I am alone, and all the emotions have been drained from me. They soon return, though, and I can’t stop myself from bursting into floods of tears.

Why? Why do they have to come back now? Why did this ever have to happen? Why was I sent here? Why was I born into the world I was? Why did they have to be taken away? And why did the Capitol do the same thing to me? When do I die?   
When can it all be over?

It’s repeated, in a way. My parents’ lives were taken by thugs with no care for human beings. I was taken away by the Capitol, with no care for any life, other than the ones in their little Utopia. And it’s likely I won’t return with my life. I dash down the hallway and slam the door, then bury my face in the covers and hide from the world.  
I can’t do this anymore. I can’t pretend I don’t care. I want to be back with my family now. I can’t pretend that I’m strong. I’m as weak as weak gets. I can’t pretend that I’m fine with killing.  
I don’t want to kill. I’m not a murderer. I’m not like them.   
Am I?   
After I finally calm down, I rise and make my way into the dining room. Everybody else is there – I wonder how long they’ve been waiting. Petra smiles at me, practically glowing. I try and smile back, but I don’t know how convincing it is. Then she asks the dreaded question.  
“So, how was it?” she asks brightly. I don’t know why I dread the answer so much, because it’s not like I need to go into detail. I didn’t do that badly, either. There’s an unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach, though.  
“I guess it went well? I don’t know,” I hesitate, “it’s not like I can compare myself, is it?”  
“I think I did alright,” Jean pipes up. “If they actually took any notice. They gave me minimal attention.”  
Minimal attention! At least the Gamemakers actually reacted to me. I can’t imagine that was really the case – surely he’s stretching the truth.  
“You probably did fine. If you’re skilled, they won’t ignore that.” I say.  
Levi speaks up, “We all have jobs to do. I keep you alive; Petra keeps you in check; Hange and Moblit dress you properly; you enter the Games. They’re not going to slack off.” He picks at the food on his plate with a fork, reminding me that I need to eat. I think it’s shrimp, something that must have come from District Four. The only fish we get is from the forest streams, so everything we get is freshwater – and I have never seen a shrimp in my life, so it must be seafood.   
Let go, I think. You can’t keep thinking like this, because you’ll never be able to think straight. You have no control here, no control now. What happens will happen.  
After we finish, everyone sits in some form of common room to watch the scores get announced. Usually, the careers get the highest scores with a range of about eight to ten. Most of the others average a five or six, and twelves are unheard of.   
We’re sandwiched in the middle of the presentation. I expect at least a seven, because I didn’t compete for nothing. Jean pulls and eight, which I don’t think he expected. Then, it’s my score that flashes up. I grit my teeth.

“Mikasa Ackerman – 7  
10.”

Ten! I got a ten! I have potential; I might get sponsors. There’s a chance I might survive. The pair of us receives congratulatory hugs, though I don’t particularly enjoy them.  
“I don’t…I don’t believe it. I don’t get it.” I stammer.  
“What?” Jean asks. “Were you expecting something higher?”  
“We’re equal to the careers. We’re as deadly as they are. And we’re from District Seven,” I reply.  
“I guess things are changing a little!” Petra squeals. “Are you going to be more positive now?”  
The scores are as predicted, other than a few stand-outs: Krista, the girl from District Three gets an eight, and Sasha, the archer from Ten – she is awarded a nine. A nine. That’s as threatening as careers are, too. I’ll make sure to stay away from her.  
“Oh, you don’t know how fantastic you are!” Hange explains. “This makes it so much easier! The Capitol likes you because you’re so interesting, they’re willing to sponsor you, and they’ll be hung on every word at the interviews…which reminds me, you must see the designs we have for your outfits!”  
“Yes, the outfits,” Moblit says. “You’ll love them. We’ll have you try them tomorrow.”

 

As I tuck myself into bed, I can’t help but feel warm…and happy, of a sort. It’s the first time I feel this way, too. Is this a good thing? How long will it last? I pull the covers over my head in a protective manner, something we used to do at home when we were afraid of the ‘monsters’. Now they surround me. Tomorrow is Sunday – that’s the day where everyone had to go to school. If you weren’t working in the week, you didn’t have to attend, but most did for the sake of learning something. We’d really only stay with each other, since neither of us was at the top of the class, or that friendly. We didn’t mind, so it was okay.  
I don’t dream anything violent this time, but who’s to say they won’t soon be reality?

-

Today is “extremely important”. Coaching begins for the interviews, the most important part in the run-up to the games, some might say. It’s also penultimate day before the Games, which sets me on edge. We’re running out of time.   
“You have a few hours with me, and then a few with Petra,” Levi says at breakfast. “Or vice versa. I’ll be coaching you for the actual interview, and she’ll be coaching you in appearance. Mikasa, you’re with Petra first.”  
Petra is all too cheerful today. “Are you looking forward to getting rid of us?” I sigh.  
“No! I’m proud. We get very few tribute pairs that do so well, that’s all,” she replies, beaming. “Anyway. I don’t have the dress for you to try, so Hange gave me this. It’s similar, I guess.”  
The dress I try on stops about halfway between my knees and the top of my thigh – not exactly the most comfortable, or my choice. Apart from the skirt, it hugs my body, but at least across the chest it’s more conservative. Well, I don’t have any cleavage to show. The sleeves are relatively short but are draped and flowing, and the neck cuts across in a straight line from shoulder to shoulder. It’s also black, which I greatly dislike.  
I almost break my ankle trying to walk in heels. They aren’t stupidly high like Petra’s, but this is something new to me that I just can’t get the hang of. I waddle like a penguin.  
“Posture!” Petra snaps. “Head up, shoulders back, straight back! Arms by sides, not crossed!” I try, but I doubt it’s worth it.  
“Why bother practicing? I’ll do it on the night…” I mumble.  
“Because you need to get the hang of it! I didn’t grow up just knowing how to walk flawlessly in heels,” Petra answers. For a start, I highly doubt that because she lives in an aesthetically-oriented city. “Come on, have another go.”  
By the end of the session, I look a lot less awkward. No, I don’t look like a model, but I don’t fall over either. I change back into my everyday clothing – a relief, because I’m not walking to the dining room like that.

After lunch, Levi greets me with a slightly less depressed ‘smile’. It’s an acknowledgement, anyway. He just stares.  
I finally ask, “Well, what is it?”  
“You’re going to be... I don’t know. I don’t know how we’ll present you. You’re so mysterious and cold, but the audience knows there’s passion inside of you. So how will we portray you?” He sounds genuinely troubled.  
“How are you going to portray Jean?”  
“It doesn’t matter, but honest and confident. Someone you’d maybe look up to, or relate to. Human, I guess. But you’re not Jean…Who are you?”  
It takes me a while to think. “I’m a survivor,” I answer.  
“…Then we show your skill, and your strength,” he says. “During the interview, you’ll be questioned on tactics, home, and a ton of random things too. How are you going to answer?”  
“I don’t know,” I reply. “I guess I’ll just be honest. Drag things out a little?” It’s what I’ve seen before, and it works.  
We spend the afternoon practicing with mock interviews, asking questions, faking reactions and gesturing towards the audience. If it stays in my head, I’m all set. I don’t know what’ll happen if it doesn’t. Levi is surprisingly animated, which is kind of scary.  
“If you don’t mind me asking…” I begin. “What happened?” His face turns to a grave expression.  
“They were all killed,” he answers. “Even after the Games, they were still killed.”  
I don’t dare reply.

-

I don’t feel like eating with everyone else tonight, and there isn’t any reason to anyway. I speak into the mouthpiece, and sit on my bed eating mini chicken pies with a fancy arrangement of vegetables. After taking a bath to loosen up, I change into my nightdress. I order some bread, and butter a roll that melts in my mouth.  
She’s there again.  
“Why did you?” I whisper. Was that cruel? Is it painful just to see everyone talk around you?  
She makes a gesture, tapping her temple and shaking her head, then drawing a line across her neck.  
It takes a few minutes for that to register. “You… you weren’t right in the head when you did it.” I say. It’s obvious that she doesn’t want to talk about it – she hesitates and picks up the empty plate from before my bath and the washing hamper, and hurries away.  
Will that ever be me?  
I easily fall asleep, exhausted from such a long day. If I feel like this wandering around the Training Complex, then how will I fare in the arena?


	3. The Interviews

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The interviews finally arrive; will Mikasa and Jean make memorable appearances, or will their interviews wash away when the buzzer goes?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a few more chapters done, they just need editing.

Chapter 7

The prep team whisks us away for the day, performing “mandatory” treatments that I’ve gained immunity against now. They’re my last hope for the interviews. If I stumble on my words, will my looks save me? I doubt it.  
My skin is as soft as silk, and any previous blemishes have gone in a flash. Rico works on my nails, painting patterns in only navy, black and white. This must be something to do with my interview dress. She uses feather-like shapes on my nails, and glazes them, giving a gloss finish. Ilse gets to work on my hair, washing it until it shines. She applies more of the strange Capitol slime, and then dries it. It isn’t hairspray that she sprays on next – apparently they’ve been instructed not to use it – but a silver sparkle as a finishing touch. Lastly, Nanaba sorts my makeup: dark blue eyeshadow and thick eyelashes, using lots of techniques I wouldn’t be able to name. The palette seems quite dark, but my face is livened up with a neutral peach lipstick.  
“Done!” Nanaba exclaims, openly excited. I almost open my eyes, but then I’m warned.  
“No, not yet! You have to wait for the dress.” Rico says.  
“I’ll go get Hange,” Ilse volunteers. They’re all so preppy. They must not have anything else to be excited about.  
I feel the satin against my body as I slip on the dress with my eyes still closed.  
“Go on.” It’s Hange’s voice – or Zoe, the name I haven’t forgotten.  
They say a reflection is meant to be a mirror image. I think they lied, because I look ten times as better in the mirror than what I seem to be in real life. The dress, cut the same as the one from yesterday, is a tad longer due to the feathers layered at the hem in shades of blue and white. The colour, thankfully, is different – in a slate grey to match my plain shoes. I am a bird; a mysterious, cunning bird.  
“Finishing touches,” Hange coos. She puts a necklace round my neck, with three red plates on the chain. “I thought this might be a good substitute for the scarf.”  
“I feel beautiful!” I say. “Thank you, Hange.”  
“I think we’ve done a good job, no?” she says to the team as I turn in the mirror; they nod in agreement. “Ok, that’s it. I suppose you’re dismissed.”  
I move around in the dress, feeling infinitely more confident than yesterday. Walking in heels is now a second nature. I spread my arms – my wings – and drift around the room.  
“All set for the interview?” Zoe asks.  
“I know what I have to say,” I reply, “but not how to make myself say it. It feels too fake…”  
“The only advice I can give you is this: be yourself. I’ll be sat near the front, so look out for me,” she says. “I’m not just a stylist, you know. I can be your moral support.”

-

Petra rushes me away too soon, to meet with Jean and prepare for the show. It’s a matter of minutes before I’ll be on national TV, in front of all of Panem. We cram into the elevator with Moblit’s crew too, and I see a recurring theme – the colours. Jean wears a simple black suit, with a dark blue shirt and white tie. I think the feathers would look more out of place on Jean than on me. When the elevator reaches the floor, we line up with the other tributes in District order, the girl preceding the boy this time.  
We’ll sit in a semi-circle in the City Circle, all eyes on us, from every Capitol window, from every seat, from every camera.  
“Remember what we practiced,” Levi says, before we step onto the stage. But it all vaporizes in my mind, and I am shaking and sweating.  
I bet I look terrible.  
The girl from One wears an opulent silver dress, still running with the theme of her District. Unlike a true Career, though, she is not driven or personable. Just extremely sullen. I don’t have to sit through too many interviews before it is my turn, but I do doubt my personality will stick out. Why remember me? I’ll slip by like the rest.  
My only saving grace is the charismatic host – Eld Jinn. He’s relatively funny, and willing to help you out now and then, but it’s his job to keep things flowing and entertaining. This year, his look is more down to earth, with blonde hair and natural touch ups for makeup. If you’d have seen last year’s Eld, you’d be as relieved as I am (hint: his hair was a similar shade to that of an oak leaf). That’s how frequently Capitol fashion changes.  
It’s too soon that I’m called up to the stage; my hands are shaking, I’m sweating, and any appeal gained from my dress has disappeared with my confidence. Everything is so loud that it turns my legs to jelly, and I forget how to walk and how to talk and how to smile…  
But somehow – just somehow – I make it to my seat. A plush, aubergine designer seat.

“Ah, Mikasa,” Eld starts. “Good to see you’ve survived all the prep.” There must be a cue for the audience to laugh, or the people here are stupidly simple minded. Well, that’s not an unrealistic expectation. “Tell me, what are your first impressions of the Capitol?”  
I hesitate, but it isn’t too noticeable. “Well… I don’t really know. It’s just so different, it’s bliss.” The words are pouring from my mouth like a waterfall. ‘Compliment their culture,’ Levi had said. If this isn’t enough, they must want blood.  
Sometimes I forget that they do. “I mean, look at the buildings…There are skyscrapers that literally scrape the sky, and you don’t ever need a rainbow because the skyline is so colourful!” Arm gestures – check. Starry eyes – check. “Oh, it’s beautiful. I wish I could’ve been one of the architects.” Hange gives me the thumbs up from the corner of my eye. I disagree; I’d deserve a thumbs-up for being myself, and this version of me is not me.

Oh, it’s beautiful.  
Maybe the buildings are, but the Games and the people behind them certainly aren’t.

“How different?” Eld asks – I knew this would be coming. I can’t disclose information about my district, though, so what’s he looking for? “What’s it like at home with just you and your family?”  
I stare into the audience dreamily, remembering the nicer aspects of my home life. I laugh; it must sound forced.  
“Well, there aren’t many people in my family,” I begin. The audience ‘ah’s, but I’m unsure why. “Yeah, it’s just my mother and my brother Eren. He’s such a chatterbox.” Dress it up, dress it up. “You should hear him: he wakes up, and doesn’t stop talking until he goes to bed at night. Even then, he talks in his sleep!” I don’t care if he gets teased for that; it really is true. I earn a laugh, so things must be going well. “But he’s my brother, and I love him.”  
“Oh, is that so? Finally got some peace and quiet now, then,” he says.  
“I guess so, but I miss my family a lot. I mean, I’ve not been trained for this, and I wasn’t warned either. I wish I could see them, just one more time.” At this I make a melancholy face, empty my head and glaze over my eyes. You can see their reactions – the pity, the sympathy. Rarely, there’s even anger towards the Hunger Games.  
“So, let’s get down to it. The Hunger Games is a day away…” The audience bursts into cheers and shouts, so Eld waits for it to quieten down. “…What’s your strategy?”  
I think, but not for too long. Don’t bore the audience, inside and outside of the arena. “Well,” I lean in, for dramatic effect, “I can’t tell you everything, but I’m warning them; they should fear me. I’m strong, and I’m smart, and I’m definitely not going to be an easy kill. I’m surviving for my family, and whatever happens, you won’t stop me from doing that until I die.”  
“I sure as hell won’t, not with that determination!” the host exclaims. I’m asked a few more questions which I answer automatically. Then the buzzer goes, signifying that my three-minute slot is up. “Good luck, Mikasa Ackerman. Thank you.”  
“Thank you,” I say as I stand, barely audible over the roar of the audience.

Jean is up next.  
“Jean Kirschtein, we all saw him at the reaping with a brave smile. How come? Come on, what are you planning?” Eld starts.  
You can see him fidget before replying. “I’m not, not in that way. It’s just that I got reaped, and that means I have a chance to win. I have the chance to make my family proud.”  
Doesn’t he realise?  
“You don’t worry about competition?”  
“I have the skills and I know what I’m doing. I know how the Games work, and when you look at everyone else, you can gauge your chances,” he elaborates.  
“I’d say yours are pretty good. Any worries?”  
“No, not really. I’m here, and I can’t do anything about it. This is the situation I have to work with, so why waste my time screaming or crying or worrying?” I agree, but that doesn’t stop me from doing those things. The only problem with his interview is that it’s too honest, and the Capitol might care, but they don’t care enough.  
“Opening ceremony – what’d you think?” Eld questions curiously, like he wouldn’t be able to predict an answer. Please.   
Come on, Jean, make something of it. “It was just…dazzling. It was great that we didn’t have to dress up as trees yet again!” They laugh, they really do. That’s more like it. “I really have to hand it to Hange and Moblit.” They’ll be zooming in on the prep team now. “I mean, the combinations and the ideas and symbolism behind it, it’s just so interesting and original.” Passionate. They like that in a tribute.

What am I doing? I shouldn’t be rooting for Jean, he’s now an enemy! He’s out to kill me! Do I want him to win if I don’t? I suppose not, because there’s the volunteer Marco. If anyone should win, shouldn’t it be him?  
I’m suspended in all these thoughts; meanwhile, Jean’s interview has finished. I straighten my back and tilt my head upwards. Petra told me that I should always sit like that, because it was what good posture looks like. Even if I’m sat up in a tree, it can’t do any harm. I beg to differ, since it won’t do anything for camouflage.  
The interviews couldn’t end any sooner, to my relief. As tributes, we have to stand and hold hands to show unity, even though we’ll soon turn against each other. I repeat both mine and Jean’s interviews in my head. They were so different. Every word he said was truth; what about mine? How much did I lie?  
It’s over now. It’s not that long until the Games begin.

-

We’re showered with more praise and congratulations at dinner, but there’s not enough to drown the uneasiness in my stomach. I feel sick with apprehension. We will wake up in the morning, be transported to the arena and the Hunger Games will begin. And it’s likely I’ll die.  
What should I say to Jean, if anything? I just don’t know. I hate that I don’t know.  
It should be the last words between us, so he remembers. So we don’t have to say anything else. So we sever any ties between us.  
To make our deaths easier.  
I try to hold down the food I eat; only because I can pack on weight this way, any last pounds will still be useful in the Games.  
“You’ve survived this far,” Levi says out of the silence. “Good luck. You’ll need it. I know you’ll win.”  
“But…” On second thoughts, it’s a bad idea to continue my sentence. “Thanks.”  
“Thanks,” Jean repeats.  
“You’re going to be utterly magnificent!” Petra exclaims with shining eyes. “I just know it.” She gives us her most encouraging smile. To who?  
“Exactly. I know a good pair when I see one. You don’t think stylists from previous years just had awful designs, did you?” Hange says, smiling.  
“They don’t want to waste their designs on tributes that won’t be remembered,” Moblit adds.  
“What you’re saying is that you appreciate us making your jobs easier?” I ask flatly.  
“No! We’re saying that you’ve done so well! Don’t forget it.” Petra says.  
“Come on, Mikasa, that was obvious.” Jean says.  
The atmosphere lightens significantly, a mere distraction from the day that awaits. Time slips by, and it’s suddenly time to go to bed if we want to be rested for morning.  
I better enjoy my last sleep.  
Except, the thing is, I probably won’t. I’ll spend it dreaming about Eren, and everyone back home, and the events of tomorrow.  
Might as well swing by Jean’s room before I sleep.

-

What to say?  
“Thanks…” I whisper. “It doesn’t seem right, but thanks, I guess. If you’re the one that returns, tell him I want him to start shutting up.”  
“I will,” he replies. “And if it’s you, tell my family that at least I went and made them proud. Even if I didn’t return.”  
They’re both equally sad statements.


	4. The Launch Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is relatively small, but I don't think it actually needs to be that long. Again, there isn't much in this part of the work, but I'm not sure it needs to be that lengthy.

Chapter 8

Hange wakes me up before dawn to dress me in a simple grey shirt and white trousers. The final dressing of tributes is done in the tunnels under the arena, in the launch room. Our hovercraft arrives as dawn is breaking, the sky salmon pink. We say the final goodbyes when they lower the ladder and I cling onto it; some mechanism on it paralyses me. As the ladder pulls me up inside, I wave goodbye to the Capitol. It may be the last time I see it.  
It doesn’t release me as soon as I’m inside. A man with hair like a chestnut approaches me, his job easier because I can’t move. I feel like he’d probably be able to hold me down if I struggled, though.  
“This is your tracker,” he explains. I feel the sharp stab of the needle, even though I’m practically numb. Now they can find me in any location in the arena. You know, since you wouldn’t want to lose any screen time. The man leaves and I am left to Hange, or so I thought, because an Avox leads us to the breakfast table. Anxiety takes over and I just eat, not bothering to look at what’s going in my mouth.  
The windows open, and I am allowed to see outside of Panem, the wasteland arenas are built on. We soar over the land, like the birds I’ve been dressed like for the past week. After about half an hour, the windows are covered meaning that we’re nearing the site. The hovercraft lands and the only place we can go is to the Launch Room, where I will be prepared for the Games. Not long to go.  
I take my final Capitol shower here, and will be the only person to. Then, Hange brushes and tidies my hair before the outfits arrive. She has no control over what I’m wearing, as the tributes have to look identically clothed. What arrives is a pair of khaki cargo trousers, hiking boots, a dark green t-shirt with the Games logo, a hooded brown coat with plenty of pockets just longer than my torso, and a leather belt with a few spaces for weaponry.  
Nice.  
Finally, Hange loops the crimson scarf around my neck. It’s surprisingly cold underground.  
“You know, you could’ve taken an extra token and passed this off as your outfit,” Hange states.  
“I don’t really have anything else, though.” I say. “And if you don’t have a say in the outfits, I wouldn’t be able to wear this anyway.”  
“I suppose you’re right,” she replies. “Try out your outfit. Go for a stroll.” I obey, and the clothing is surprisingly lightweight. I rock back on the sole of the shoe; there’s plenty of grip. “Anything you want to eat?”  
“I might as well. Can you get those dumplings?” I request.  
So we sit there, waiting for the call eating the dumplings we had the day I first met her. Tension is rising; nerves turn to flat-out fear. What am I about to go into? Why? Is Eren watching? Will he be watching me, or my opponents? Will he watch me… die?  
“I could be dead in no time,” I say.  
“Then don’t let that happen,” Zoe replies. “Remember, you do the surviving first and the killing later.”  
I just chew the food until the call comes. Gripping Zoe’s hands, I step on the metallic plate.  
“Good luck. Do us proud,” she smiles and says. Hange is disappearing below me as the light floods in, her glasses shining being the last I see of her. Then, the glass tube encases me.   
"Thank you," I mouth.

I’m shocked by the harsh sunlight that begins to fade, and the familiar smell of District Seven fills my nose; the smell of home – I’ll die feeling like I’m at home. That means there are forests in the arena. I lift my head and straighten my back as Petra says, because good posture will totally save me in the arena. Two podiums to my right is Jean, eyes on the Cornucopia. That reminds me to do the same.  
All these familiar faces surround me, people I got to know and trained with.  
Petra and Levi will be rapidly signing up sponsors, or so I hope. That is, if we have any. If we have, I’m confident they’ll do a good job. If we haven’t, then we really need to work hard showing our potential, even though it’s more or less too late.  
The legendary voice of the announcer Dot Pixis booms through invisible speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, let the One-Hundred-and-Fourth Hunger Games begin!”

Sixty seconds.  
Sixty seconds before my imminent death. It’s guaranteed; everyone here knows only one person ever survives.  
And it’s the one with the guts to kill the others. Out of cold blood, out of insanity, purely for protection. A victor’s reasons go on and on.  
Sixty seconds.  
Sixty seconds is all it could take to have a knife lodged in my back; sixty seconds is all it could take to be lifted up into a hovercraft; sixty seconds is long enough to open a coffin and cry at the still, emotionless corpse that was once their family. Her daughter. His sister.  
Sixty seconds.  
Sixty seconds was long enough for my name to be picked out of the ball.  
Sixty seconds until the Games begin.  
And the countdown starts.

I will survive.  
I refuse to die.


End file.
